


And I'll give you a thousand kisses (until you forgive me)

by mayatheyellowbee



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Idiots in Love, M/M, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23776483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayatheyellowbee/pseuds/mayatheyellowbee
Summary: For all the years they had been traveling together, Jaskier had ignored Geralt’s insults and general rudeness, countering it with his witty quips and cheerfulness. After their reunion, this, as a lot of things between them, had changed. Geralt had expected that once he’d apologized, everything would have gone back to how it used to be. The bard had told him everything was forgiven, they had hugged awkwardly, and then they were back on the Path.Yet now everytime he says something mean to Jaskier, as a joke or because he’s hungry or tired or just his usual cranky self, he can see the human wince. He still replies in earnest, playing the game of their ordinary friendly banter, but Geralt doesn’t miss the hurt in his scent.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 112
Kudos: 910





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my first fic that isn't a one shot. It's very different, to plan chapters and try to make them coherent, but I actually quite like it.  
> It's going to be 5 or 6 chapters long, the first 4 are already written but I'm going to take my time uploading them because my writing planning is erratic (even if I have nothing else to do these days), so expect a chapter every week. Maybe. Who knows.

He can’t sleep.

He has slept in caves and swamps, on rocky mountains and icy plains. The comfort of a bed is not needed for him to rest, an unnecessary luxury he only indulges in when his pouch is full of coin, or if Jaskier offers to pay.

But sometimes he just can’t sleep, no matter where he is and what his bed is made of. He doesn’t feel in danger, they’re in a relatively safe area east of Maribor, and the fire they’ve been maintaining all evening will keep most creatures away until dawn. There’s always the risk of being attacked by thugs, but Geralt’s pretty confident in his capacity to hear anyone approaching their camp even in his deepest sleep. His swords are tucked next to his bedroll, as usual, and he’d be up in an instant if he heard as much as a step coming in their direction.

No, it’s not the risks of camping in the open that keeps him awake, he’s too used to that after ninety years of roaming the Continent. But he’s restless, his muscles keep twitching, untamed energy thrumming through his body, even though he’s literally exhausted.

He’d been on the hunt the whole night before and a good part of the day too, following the tracks of a human killing troll. The monster had fled from the murder scene, which was weird, given how territorial these creatures usually were, and he’d used mutagens and potions to prepare himself for the fight. There hadn’t been one. When Geralt had found him, the troll was washing the blood away from his gaping wounds in a stream. It wasn’t unusual for trolls to be covered in scars, but the number of them and the broken shackles at his wrists had drawn the witcher’s attention. Turned out the troll had been chased out of the cave he was occupying and brought back to the castle, used as entertainment by the very same castellan that had hired Geralt to kill him. After one too many humiliations for the sole amusement of high-born pricks, the monster had rebelled and forced his way out of the castle. The son of the castellan had called for his vassals and organized a hunt as a game. Two lordlings had found the beast first and played with him, until the troll had snapped and killed one of them. He kept telling Geralt he hadn’t done it on purpose, only wanted to shove him away, but he’d crushed the boy against a rock with too much force and bashed his head.

So Geralt had left him on the promise the troll would leave and find a place far from civilization to make his home, and returned to the castle with anger in his gut and too much adrenaline coursing in his veins. He’d told the castellan he’d dealt with the troll, gotten a way smaller purse than what had been agreed upon, on the pretence he hadn’t brought back a head as was the deal, and picked Jaskier up from the tavern where he was waiting for him. He had hoped, without too much conviction, that walking for the rest of the day would drain the unspent energy out of his body, but as he had expected, it hadn’t done much to help. He was still on edge.

Jaskier had fallen asleep quickly, despite his usual complaints that they could have had a real bed for the night, had Geralt behaved like a true witcher and not the big softie he actually was. Geralt had given him an unimpressed look, and that had settled the argument. He is now snoring quite loudly, and while most nights Geralt finds it lulling, comforting, like the buzz of insects in the summer or the crash of waves on the beach ; it’s not helping now, it only adds to the things that grate on his nerves.

He stays as still as a stone, trying to force his body into relaxing, but everything is too much, the itchy fabric of his bedroll on his skin, the crackling of their campfire on the other side of Jaskier, the smell of rotting leaves and damp earth. He can hear every little bug crawling in the dirt beneath him, the leathery wings of bats hunting in the night sky, the shuffling of a wild boar in the forest half a mile away.

He wants to get up and run until his body can’t anymore, but he’d be in Cintra before his legs give up. Or he could go and kill that fucking noisy wildboar for their breakfast, but he can smell that she’s pregnant and they’d have to leave most of it to the scavengers when they pack up in the morning.

He doesn’t like to leave Jaskier alone in the open anyway. He hasn’t heard of bandits or wolves in the area but somehow the bard always gets in trouble when Geralt isn’t looking. He also knows better now than to let him wake up alone. They used to do it all the time before the dragon hunt, Geralt leaving at first light to tend to whatever business he had, assuming the other would catch up, or that they’d meet in a tavern a couple of months later, as they always did.

But since the mountain Jaskier seems more… sensitive, somehow. For all the years they had been traveling together, he had ignored Geralt’s insults and general rudeness, countering it with his witty quips and cheerfulness. After their reunion, this, as a lot of things between them, had changed. Geralt had expected that once he’d apologized, everything would have gone back to how it used to be. The bard had told him everything was forgiven, they had hugged awkwardly, and then they were back on the Path.

Yet now everytime he says something mean to Jaskier, as a joke or because he’s hungry or tired or just his usual cranky self, he can see the human wince. He still replies in earnest, playing the game of their ordinary friendly banter, but Geralt doesn’t miss the hurt in his scent.

One morning he’d left early for a job, and when he had returned Jaskier was packing his things, his shoulders hunched, facing away from the door. Geralt couldn’t see his face but the taste of the bard’s tears laid heavy on his tongue. Confused, he had asked if Jaskier was hurt and his friend had startled, turned to meet his gaze, disbelief and pain rolling down his cheeks, but the witcher couldn’t see anything wrong apart from that. Dabbing the wetness away from his cheeks, Jaskier had told him everything was fine, but Geralt didn’t let himself be fooled. Jaskier had woken up alone and thought Geralt was gone. And had cried as a result. Geralt had never seen him cry before. He didn’t know if it was a consequence of his angry words on the mountain top or if all his leaving without a word thing had always bothered his friend and he hadn’t noticed it, but it had made him feel miserable.

He already had stopped denying Jaskier and him were friends. Acknowledging it had been a part of his apologies – actually, Jaskier had requested Geralt stopped acting like he was only merely putting up with the bard’s presence and started allowing himself to feel some sort of emotions for once, godsdammit.

He had thought it was pretty obvious he considered the human a friend, what with all the things he’d let Jaskier do, like following him in his travels for the past twenty years or writing songs about him that were as stupid as they were catchy. But apparently Jaskier needed it confirmed, and not just once : they had agreed Geralt would present him as « his friend » rather than « his travel companion » whenever someone would ask about him from now on. It had been a condition for the bard to accept his apologies. Geralt had complied. He would have done almost anything to fix the gaping wound that had opened in his chest since his fuck up, not that he had told that to Jaskier, lest the bard abuse it.

So he tries to be more careful now. They still banter and argue a lot, that ‘s the backbone of their relationship. But he makes sure Jaskier knows he’s joking, and he always tells him to wait for him when he leaves for a contract.  
He even left a note once, tucked between the strings of Jaskier’s lute, telling him in his sketchy handwriting that he’d be back by nightfall, not wanting to wake him up after the bard had sung his lungs out all night long at the local tavern. It seems to help, to do those things, because he hasn’t had the taste of Jaskier’s tears on his tongue since that one time.

He sighs quietly, knowing all this introspection won’t help him relax, and raises his hands to dig the heels into his eyes until it sparks stars behind the lids.

« - Can’t sleep ? » the voice is thick with slumber beside him.

And it tells a lot on Geralt’s level of exhaustion that he hasn’t noticed Jaskier’s breathing getting quicker and shallower. The bard is stirring in his bedroll, turning away from the dying fire to look at him with bleary eyes. The crescent moon lights his features nicely, and there’s a smear of ash on his cheek where he had scrubbed his stubble in his sleep. He looks so open and vulnerable like this Geralt wants to lock him in a heart-shaped box and keep it close to him forever, safe and untouched.

« - I’m okay. Go back to sleep. »

Jaskier doesn’t reply for a while, just looking at him, his skin emanating the warmth it has absorbed from the fire.

« - Is it the potions ? »

He gets up on one elbow, red lines left by his makeshift pillow on his cheek, waiting for Geralt’s answer. The witcher turns his gaze to the stars above, knowing he’s been staring for too long.

« - Hmm. »

« - Are you in pain ? »

He actually has to think about this one for a second. He always has barely healed wounds somewhere, old scars, aches from a life spent on the roads of the Continent, and the regular overstimulation that comes with his mutations. But it’s not painful now, just overwhelming.

« - No, » he says, « just restless. »

It’s Jaskier’s turn to hum sympathetically in answer.

« - Tell me how it feels. »

« - So you can put it in one of your songs ? » Geralt asks gruffly, conscious he’s being an asshole. But Jaskier’s questions are always too personal, asking him to open his heart as if it is so easy, and it makes him touchy.

« - No, so I can find a way to help. »

There is no hurt in Jaskier’s eyes when he turns to meet them again, only patience. So he shoves the weird panicky feeling trying to crawl up his throat at the idea of bearing his soul, even just a little, and tries to find the words that will satisfy the bard.

« - I’m tired, but my body is… pulsating with adrenaline. My skin feels too tight, like it can’t handle all the energy. I can’t stay still for too long, like when you have an itch and you can’t help yourself from scratching it. And I can hear and smell everything in a two miles radius. It’s... unnerving. »

« - Wouldn’t it help if you medidate ? » the bard asks after a minute.

« - You find it unsettling when I do. »

« - I find it unsettling when I wake up in the middle of the night with your creepy reflective eyes in a dark corner of the room. »

« - I don’t have reflective eyes. »

« - Well, maybe not, but I have a very creative imagination. Anyway, I’m used to it now. It’ll help you rest and shake off all the nasty potion effects, and you won’t be grumpier than you already are when we take on the road tomorrow. It’s a win-win situation. »

Geralt shakes his head.

« - I’ll be too far gone if we’re in danger. I won’t notice anything if someone or something comes to attack, and I won’t be as fast to react. It’s too dangerous. »

« - You said there was no danger here, » Jaskier retorts easily, « but I can keep watch if you want. »

« - You need to sleep, Jaskier. »

« - You need it too. You haven’t rested in two days. Even you need a good night’s sleep at some point. I’m sure you remember what happened the last time you suffered from insomnia. »

The witcher scowls at him, but Jaskier is already getting up, sitting and stretching his arms before he slips off his bedroll.

« - Okay. But wake me up in a couple of hours. I don’t want you to complain tomorrow if you’re tired. »

« - Yeah, yeah, alright, no need to thank me. »

The bard walks to the rotting log they used as a bench before going to bed and retrieves his lute, settling comfortably on the other side of the campfire.

« - Come on, do your witcher-y meditation stuff. Unless you want me to sing you to sleep. »

Geralt huffs a laugh and heaves himself up too, feeling exhaustion in his very bones, and sits on his heels, knees slightly parted digging in the dirt, hands resting on his thighs, back relaxed. A light breeze chills his bare chest but it helps with the potions burning in his veins. He watches Jaskier tune his lute quietly as he settles in the familiar position. He closes his eyes, and before he shuts his mind to the world around him, he murmurs a « thank you » that he knows will be heard. If there’s a reply, he doesn’t hear it, his breathing already evening out.

*

The sun is already high when he stirs from his meditation, his body stiff from staying still for so long. He feels well rested though, his mind quiet, his senses back to normal.

As he slowly comes back to the outside world, he hears Jaskier humming half formed sentences and the scratch of his quill against paper. When he opens his eyes, pupils narrowing into slits to adjust to the light, and sees the bard discheveled and pale from lack of sleep, anger and affection mingle in his growling stomach. The human is so fucking irritating.

  
But as soon as Jaskier notices he’s being watched, he raises his head to meet Geralt’s gaze and offers him a softly amused smile.

« - How was your hundred year long nap, princess ? »

Later, on the road, Jaskier complains he is tired, and Geralt tells him to shut up. But he makes sure they reach the next village by sundown, and pays for a room with two decent beds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt: I'm not tired
> 
> Also Geralt: *sleeps for ten days*
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hoped you liked it, don't hesitate to come talk to me in the comments. Quarantine is very lonely okay.


	2. Chapter 2

After the whole business with the troll in Maribor, they head to Oxenfurt for the Annual Bardic Competition, which Jaskier attends every year without fault. It’s the first time Geralt follows him there though, and he doesn’t hate it as much as he thought he would. He doesn’t get to partake in the festivities that much anyway, because there’s a contract for him on the docks that keep him busy for the first two days of the festival.

The job advertises for a bucca that apparently steals from the crates of Redanian vodka of a merchant ship going to Kovir. After Geralt tells the captain there’s no such things as buccas and easily follows the very obvious smell of alcohol to an area of the sewage system under the city that has been abandonned, he finds a quick witted godling that seems to have wasted no time in engulfing the stolen vodka. They share a bottle while the witcher convinces the very annoying creature to stop stealing from humans (or at least to be a little more subtle about it), then he brings back the remaining crates of spirits to the captain and agrees to a discount on the promised pay because of the missing merchandise. He advises him to stuff his crates with burdock to make them godling-proof and comes back just in time to see the end of Jaskier’s final performance. The bard doesn’t win the competition but he has more success than his despised rival Valdo Marx and he can’t stop bragging about it for the next few days. Geralt lets him, most of the time, because the bard has earned them a good amount of coin and paid for most of their supplies before leaving the city. He also privately enjoys the good mood that hasn’t left his friend since they entered Oxenfurt. He had missed the joyful and pointless chatter when he was travelling alone, and since they reunited Jaskier has been more restrained than Geralt remembered him.

He has wondered if it was because of the human getting older, even though he still looked young, if the years had finally made him less flamboyant, but seeing him performing at the festival, he had caught a glimpse of the frivolous man he had met in Lower Posada so long ago. Laughter and arrogance suited him more than melancholy and bashfulness. He hasn’t said that to the bard, though. Jaskier doesn’t need encouragements to be insufferable.

They have been on the road for a few days, heading to Toussaint for a banquet Jaskier received an invitation to perform at next month, when they stumble upon a company of merchants being mugged by bandits. Vesemir has taught him not to interfere in men’s business when there’s no monster involved, but Jaskier looks at him like he is absolutely sure Geralt will save the day, and the thugs are only a handful - a stupid one at that - so he unsheathes his steel sword and keeps a fat shoemaker from being gutted.

The merchants are a little wary of him even after he chased the last bandit away, but Jaskier quickly makes them comfortable with his easy friendliness and crude jokes. They are invited to share wine and dinner with the company and they settle in a brown field on the side of the road for the night. The bard entertains them with songs and stories until they’re too tired and drunk to keep their eyes open. The Witcher and the poet lay their bedrolls outside the circle of trailers, a little too far from the fire for Jaskier’s taste, but it’s a warm night and the witcher doesn’t fancy sleeping in a cramped space with snoring and inebriated men. None of them suggest to separate for the night. They fall asleep whispering about which towns they want to go through on their way to Toussaint, and wake up only a few hours later as the first merchants start to pack up.

Geralt is rummaging through Roach’s saddlebags, looking for a clean enough shirt to replace the one that got stained and torn in yesterday’s brawl, when his fingers touch something soft, way softer than anything he owns. Expecting to find one of Jaskier’s colorful undershirts or doublets mixed with his clothes, which wouldn’t be the first time, he is surprised when he fishes out the offending garment out of the bag. It’s a black shirt, way too humble for the bard’s tastes. It’s too large, too. It actually looks like one of Geralt’s own shirts, only way more expensive. The material feels incredibly supple, but sturdy enough to last an honourable amount of time with his witcher lifestyle.

« - Jaskier » he calls as he slides the fabric between his digits appreciatively. The bard raises his head from where he is crouched over his bedroll, rolling it with practised ease. Geralt holds the shirt with an arched eyebrow. «What’s this? »

Jaskier quickly lowers his head again, effectively hiding his face, but not before Geralt can catch the glimpse of a blush on his tanned cheeks.

« - It’s a shirt, Geralt. Surely you don’t need me to explain its purpose. »

« - I know it’s a shirt. But it’s not my shirt. Why is it in my bag ? »

The human shrugs, meeting Geralt’s eyes for a second before avoiding them once again. The witcher keeps staring at him with an unimpressed look. Finally, it coaxes him into replying with an annoyed huff.

« - I found it in Oxenfurt when I was shopping for new boots. The old ones were ruined and the shoemaker couldn’t salvage them. Anyway, I saw the shirt and thought it’d suit you. »

Jaskier has dressed Geralt up several times, for balls and banquets, but he has never taken Geralt’s tastes into account. He only allows him to wear black because he thinks the whole « dark and brooding » style was good for business – and Geralt had once threatened him with castration after the bard had tried to force him into a bright blue doublet. Jaskier is still quite talented at finding clothes that makes the witcher look ridiculous and stilted. But the shirt is a simple thing, black with laces at the neck. No frilly stuff, no unpractical silk, no flowery patterns.

« - So you bought me an expensive shirt because you thought I’d look good in it ? » he asks with a bemused tone, his brow arching even higher.

« - It wasn’t that expensive » the bard mumbles, brushing the dust from the knees of his light green pants as he stands up.

« - This is cambric, Jaskier. That’s what nobles wear in Toussaint. »

« - Well, okay, it was a bit pricy, but I made plenty of coin at the festival, and I thought, you get very sensitive with your potions and mutagens and whatnot, I know your usual clothes irritate your skin when it happens, so may be a softer fabric would make it more bearable. »

« -… I do not become ‘sensitive’ » Geralt defends lamely. The bard shrugs again, looking equally embarrassed and upset.

« - Whatever. You don’t have to wear it anyway. It’ll make very good bandages if we run short of those again. »

He picks up his bedroll and stomps around Roach to strap it behind her saddle, looking in every way like a bird with ruffled feathers. This reaction - which happens everytime the bard is offended - never fails to amuse Geralt, but he is too busy trying to keep his jaw from falling off from bewilderment to tease the bard about it. The thought that Jaskier noticed his discomfort, and decided to actually do something about it, even though Geralt is used to coping with it without any help, that… wakes something weird but not entirely unpleasant in his stomach. Like the tossing and turning of ale when he drinks enough to make his head feel fuzzy.

Once the surprise has faded, he shrugs the shirt on, the fabric caressing his – not sensitive, thank you – skin like water. He brushes his hand over the material covering his stomach where the strange creature has settled, marvelling at the feel. When he raises his head, Jaskier hides his smile as he pretends to tend to Roach’s tangled mane.

*

He wears the shirt under his armour all day long, and it doesn’t get too uncomfortably sticky or smelly with sweat. He expects Jaskier to taunt him about it, but the bard doesn’t mention it again, even though he gets the same soft look everytime Geralt puts the shirt on the next days.


	3. Chapter 3

It feels like they’ve come back in time, fifteen years earlier, to that fateful night in Cintra. They’ve been given a room at a manor on the heights of Beauclair, where Jaskier will play for a wedding banquet tonight. The bride, whom Geralt has forgotten the name of, is one of Jaskier’s former lovers – one who didn’t already have a ring on her finger when they had « enjoyed each other’s company » as the bard had put it. He had received the job offer while in Oxenfurt and invited Geralt to come along.

So as usual in this type of situation – meaning : when they’re going to  mingle with a fancy crowd – he lets Jaskier bathe and dress him, just like at princess Pavetta’s betrothal. 

« - Well, try not to get yourself another Child Surprise this time, hmm ? » snorts Jaskier as he throws salts and herbs in the Witcher’s bath. Even his ridiculous flourishes are eerily similar.

Geralt hasn’t changed much since that disaster of a party. Well, that’s not true, everything changed ; he got two of the most bullheaded women he’s ever met thrown in his life by Destiny, became the father of one and the sometimes-lover of the other ; a war has started, and he’s definitely messed up the “staying out of human businesses” part of a Witcher’s job.

Physically, though, he’s still the same, give or take half a dozen new scars. Jaskier has changed though. Subtle differences Geralt only notices because he’s paying attention. His hair is just a slightly bit longer, dark curls streaked with grey. His cheeks have lost their childish roundness, and the stubble there, when he lets it grow, isn’t as patchy as it used to be, but somehow his eyes still have the same eagerness, the same hunger for life they had when he was an eighteen year old kid  with bread in his pants.

Geralt is amazed by the bard’s resilience. He used to think his unbreakable optimism was a sign of foolishness, but he knows now how wrong he was. It takes so much courage to witness the cruelty of men and monsters alike, as Jaskier was wont to do by following a Witcher on the Path, and to still choose to see the beauty of the world Geralt had long forgotten to look for. There is still hope in his songs and love in his eyes even after having had his heart broken countless times, been through a merciless war, and lost his youth to follow the crankiest Witcher on the Continent.

Once Geralt is clean and perfumed to the bard’s liking, he’s released with the order to shave so he’ll stop looking like an overgrown sheepdog.  The sharp razor blade scrapes against his jaw in movements he has memorized over the years, leaving behind smooth skin reddened with irritation. Jaskier warms his voice as he fastens the last nacre buttons of the carnation pink doublet he has chosen for the event – an ode to the love the newly wed share for each other, he had said when catching the judgemental look Geralt had given to his outfit.

Washing away the last of the soap from his face, Geralt puts the razor down and starts gathering his still damp hair in the ponytail he has favoured lately.

« - Oh hum… Geralt ? » Jaski er interrupts his vocalizations to ask with an uncharacteristically shy voice.

The witcher meets his gaze through the mirror, and Jaskier doesn’t add anything, fidgeting with the button he just finished with. When nothing else follows, Geralt turns to face him, but the bard breaks eye contact, looking away to the view of the apple orchard being harvested by sun tanned men and women at the back of the manor they have from the window.

« - I thought maybe… maybe you could let me do that part ? »

That makes Geralt raise an eyebrow.

« - You want to do my ponytail ? »

« - No I, hum… there’s this new trend here, and I thought if… if you’d allow me, I could braid your hair ? You don’t have to, it’d be totally fine if you don’t, but it’s getting quite long and...- »

« - Yeah, okay. »

« -… okay ? » Jaskier startles, wide eyed, as if he expected a punch to the face rather than an affirmative answer. Geralt snorts at the disbelief showing on his friend’s face, but his heart constricts at the idea that he’s led him to expect violent reactions to the simplest demands. That’s his fault, he knows. He hasn’t punched the bard since that first time in Posada when he was trying to get rid of him, but he can’t count how often he’s pushed him away when Jaskier was just trying to be helpful or friendly, because he thought that getting attached would make him weaker. He wishes he could go back and punch his younger self in the face to set his mind right.

« - Yes, Jaskier, you can braid my hair. But don’t pull. And nothing too fancy, I don’t want to look like a fucking elven princess. »

The words break Jaskier’s surprise, and he rapidly gathers his wits again.

« - Oh, my dear witcher, I don’t think I could ever make you look like a princess, not even with the finest dress. I’m sure it’d be fun to try, though. »

« - Don’t push your luck, bard. »

« - I’d never. Come sit on the bed. »

Geralt obliges, sitting where Jaskier is patting the linen sheets and the bard kneels behind him, gently threading his fingers through white hair, getting rid of a few knots. Geralt can watch him work through the mirror that faces them, his face focused on his task, the pinch of his brow as he decides how to proceed, his lips unconsciously parted and almost as pink as his ridiculous doublet. After a second, he separates a section at the top of Geralt’s hairline and starts weaving the strands in practised movements. He tugs a little too harshly sometimes and Geralt grunts with displeasure. The bard mutters a few apologies, but the silky fabric of his pants is brushing against Geralt’s back, spreading heat where they touch, the lute calloused fingertips grazing his neck from time to time, raising goosebumps in their wake, and it quickly makes Geralt forget about the pain.

He has let Ciri braid his hair a couple of time before he left her at Kaer Morhen. She said she found it soothing, and the things that made her happy were so rare, Geralt had complied. He actually quite likes it too. The repetitive movements and the light massage on his scalp make his muscles relax and his lids grow heavy. He can’t stifle a yawn and of course the bard doesn’t miss it. Even if he couldn’t see his smile reflected in the mirror, Geralt couldn’t miss Jaskier’s poorly stifled laugh.

« - Maybe I should braid your hair more often. You don’t look like a big bad witcher right now. »

« - Hmm. Maybe you should. »

Jaskier meets his gaze in the  mirror. Geralt doesn’t look away, decid ing to show the bard he means it. He wants his friend to know that his affection is welcome now, that he won’t be chased or yelled at for wanting to be close. Geralt has learned a great deal about showing emotions since he has met Ciri, and though he’s still not very good at it, accepting Jaskier’s gestures of friendship is certainly a good start. They watch each other for a second, before Jaskier shakes himself, his eyes focusing once again on his hands in Geralt’s hair.

« - All finished ! This is probably one of my finest works to this day. Not that you’d know, of course. Don’t go and waste all that skill and effort with your frown. Yeah, that frown. » he sighs as he gestures in the general direction of Geralt’s face. He then clasps his hand on the Witcher’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze before letting go and shuffling out of bed.

Geralt rises  to  look at hi s reflection from closer. There’s a bigger braid on the top of his head, and two small ones on each side. The whole thing is neatly gathered at the back of his head in a fancy version of his usual ponytai l. It looks like the type of traditional braids his has seen warriors wear for special occasions on Skellige. He wants to tell the bard he likes it, but he doesn’t have a chance to as the hideous dark blue doublet he has accepted to wear tonight is thrown in his face. Jaskier has put his shoes on and is waiting for him by the door, combing his hair with his fingers for the sixth time in an hour to give it a theatrically discheveled look.

« - Come on, princess. Put your shirt on and let’s go, or we’ll be more than fashionably late. »

*

Geralt gets a few compliments about his hair during the ball, but he’s not interested in the ladies trying to get his attention. He can’t tear his gaze away from Jaskier, who’s performing with three other musicians on a small stage on the side of the dance hall.

He’s singing with a euphoric smile on his face, the first buttons of his collar undone as they always are when its too hot and he gets carried away, showing the dark hair of his chest. He’s too far and there is a crowd of perfumed bourgeoisie between them that keep Geralt from smelling him, but the Witcher can see the glistening sheen of sweat on his brow and upper lip, catching the light as he m oves.

He dances around with glee, in his element, like Geralt only sees him when he plays. Flirt and mischief sparkle in his eyes as they make contact with every good-looking person in the room. He catches Geralt’s gaze and winks at him as if he is the only person in the hall. The Witcher replies with a curt nod, knowing this is probably what everyone feels when they find themselves the center of Jaskier’s attention for a second. He still struggles to stifle a contented smile as he tries to tune back to the babbling of a middle aged baroness who seems to find him to her tastes.

And if his heart flutters a little when Jaskier comes to him during his next break to steal wine from his cup and make sure all the braids are still in order with flitting fingers, well, no one else has to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, thank you for reading! All your lovely comments make me so impatient to update this fic everytime, but I write so slowly >_< the next chapter is ready and only needs to be beta read, but the last two haven't even left the pages of my old notebook yet. They'll be ready in time, I promise! I hope you're all safe and okay.


	4. Chapter 4

« - You can’t possibly be serious ? Geralt, stop fucking with me, it’s not funny at all ! »

There’s an angry edge to Jaskier’s voice that wasn’t there a moment before, and Geralt mentally backtracks in their conversation to find what might have provoked it.

They had been walking side by side on a narrow dirt road between lavender fields, the sun warming their backs, in no rush after they had left the last village with both their purses full of coin. They would be sleeping under the stars tonight, and it was a relief after the last few nights spent in a shitty inn stinking of sweat and cabbage. Jaskier had been composing his newest song while traipsing, a slow but merry melody about hot summer days and travels and companionship. He had been happy to fill the silence by himself for the last couple of hours, reminding Geralt of their first adventures together, flooding his heart with warmth and affection and just a tiny bit of melancholy, even if he wasn’t listening to everything. The sound of the lute and the voice of the bard were as natural and familiar to him as the wind in his hair. It was a part of his life, one of the rare parts he actually liked.

The poet had been struggling to find a rhyme for « Roach » for the last twenty minutes, trying different combinations, and he had finally slung his lute over his shoulder, taking a break, because, as he had said, « if you have to push it’s probably shit anyway ».

They had walked in companionable silence for a little while, until, as Geralt had expected, Jaskier had resumed his talking. He had asked him about Roach, and how he had got her, and Geralt had easily answered every question. He had realized recently that a warm tingling feeling would expand in his chest when Jaskier’s eyes would light up as he listened to Geralt’s stories of past adventures and legends and other Witchers. It had been his guilty pleasure lately, and he couldn’t remember for the life of him why he had been so reluctant to indulge the bard’s craving for knowledge and song material before.

All had been perfectly well until Jaskier had asked « why did you call her Roach ? » and Geralt had replied with a shrug. He personally found the story quite funny, but somehow it had resulted in Jaskier’s sudden mood change, and he had no idea why.

« - What the fuck Geralt ? Why would you call all your horses by the same name ? »

Geralt furrows his brow, giving his companion a confused look.

« - I don’t know, I just always have. What’s the matter ? »

Jaskier scoffs. As usual when he is offended, he looks like a bird with ruffled feathers, his feet stumbling as he tries to keep up with Geralt and find his words at the same time.

« - Wh… what’s the matter ? She is your trusty companion, your mighty steed, everyone knows a Witcher’s horse is as precious to him as his swords ! I mean, fuck, you talk to her more than to any human being, you can’t just… call her the same as the other horses. What, you couldn’t spare a moment to think of a proper name for her ? »

« - I never really thought about it. It’s just a name, Jaskier, I hardly see what the problem is. »

This time, Jaskier stops walking completely, getting almost run over by Roach who neighs with irritation as she avoids him with a step to the side. The sputtering bard doesn’t acknowledge her, which is quite hypocritical in Geralt’s opinion, but if he learned something of his relationship with Yennefer, it’s that he shouldn’t say anything incriminating when someone is mad at him, even if he knows he’s technically right.

« - Oh, it’s just a name, is it ? So what, are you going to call the next person you travel with Jaskier, too, once I’m gone ? »

The bard is outright yelling now, his arms flailing around like he’s going to take flight at any moment. Geralt doesn’t understand what’s got to his ridiculous human, and it infuriates him, because he’s been trying so very hard to please the bard for weeks, and he is not making any sense now, and how does he want Geralt to do what’s right if he’s being so confusing ?

« - Of course not, Jaskier, don’t be fucking stupid » he snaps, and as he sees Jaskier flinch back, tries to calm his breathing down to continue with a softer voice ; « Why is it so important to you anyway ? Roach doesn’t mind... »

The mare neighs softly, bumping the bard’s shoulder with her velvety nose as if she’s trying to help Geralt make his point. But Jaskier keeps staring at Geralt with hard blue eyes, a cold look that doesn’t sit right on his face, searching for something in the Witcher’s own gold irises. Geralt lets him look, trying to keep his expression as open as he can when all he can think to do is yell at the bard to stop being so disconcertingly human. He knows from experience that screaming at Jaskier is not the best way to communicate when it’s about something serious. And this, right there, seems pretty fucking serious, even though he has no idea why.

« - Well, if Roach doesn’t mind, I don’t see why I should.»

And he resumes walking again, leaving the witcher and his horse standing stupidly in the middle of the road, dust rising after him as he stomps away. Geralt watches him go, completely dumbfounded, then turns to Roach.

« - Do you have any idea what just happened ? »

The mare snorts as she shakes her head, either in disbelief or in annoyance. He tugs on her bridle with a sigh, all the anger gone and replaced with concern as he keeps an eye on the turquoise-clad silhouette walking ahead of him on the road. He hopes giving the bard some space to calm down so they can talk it out later is the right thing to do right now – funny that he is the one to want to talk about feelings for once. Jaskier would laugh at him if he wasn’t currently so busy keeping distance between them.

All he can see from where he is is the tense line of Jaskier’s shoulders and the tight fists at his sides, his whole body exuding anger and frustration. It’s hard to keep his distance when his instincts tell him to run to Jaskier and demand an explanation right now but he’s trying his best. The bard will tell him when he’s ready to talk. It’s not as if he’s ever had to force him to talk before.

After half an hour of the silent treatment, though, Jaskier seems to be slowing down, the distance between them closing as Geralt keeps his pace steady. A few meters only before he reaches him, Geralt takes in the hunched shoulders and the hands that have gone up to hug himself tightly. Those are universal signs : pain. Distress.

Geralt rushes to the bard’s side, worry burning in his gut. Has Jaskier somehow managed to get hurt in the few minutes they’ve been apart ? It’s unlikely, but it wouldn’t be the first time.

Just before Geralt reaches him, the familiar taste of salt coats his tongue. It gets even heavier when he forces Jaskier to face him with a gentle hand to his shoulder. His first instinct is to check him for injuries, but the bard is as healthy as he was half an hour ago when he stomped away. Yet his cheeks are streaked with sinuous patterns from the tears that rolled down his dust covered skin. His eyes are red and puffy and he swipes at the snot running from his nose, avoiding Geralt’s gaze. He’s far from the flirty, joyous, charming man he usually presents to the world, and all Geralt wants to do is to make him all pretty again with his mischievous smile and blue blue eyes and perfect hair.

« -What’s going on, Jaskier ? Come on, tell me. » Geralt pleads. He has hurt his bard once again and this time he doesn’t even know how. At least on the mountain it was easy to pinpoint where he had fucked up.

Jaskier looks like he wants nothing more than to run away far from here, so Geralt tightens his hold on him, just to be sure. He lets Roach’s bridle go loose to grab the bard’s other shoulder, and he turns all his attention to him as the mare strays a little farther to nip at some juicy looking grass on the side of the road.

The stench of Jaskier’s sadness sticks to his throat. The bard is breathing hard and avoiding his eyes, trying to tear himself from the Witcher’s grasp with weak protests. And Geralt never uses his full force against Jaskier, not even when he had punched him in the guts to dissuade the bard to follow him, but he can’t let him get away now, so he uses a little bit more strength than usual to keep him from fleeing. His hand comes up to the bard’s neck to guide him, thumb pressing against the soft skin behind his ear. He rests their foreheads together, and Jaskier struggles only a little more before suddenly going limp against him, a single loud sob wreaking out of him, his eyes closing as more tears roll down his dirty face. Geralt wants to chase them away with his thumbs but he’s scared the bard will push him away if he crosses an invisible line. He shifts a little to accomodate the sudden weight and speaks hushed words in the small space that separates them.

« - Jaskier, please, tell me, I can’t… I don’t know what to do. »

He feels so powerless, like his whole world is crumbling in his hands and he can’t do anything about it. Seeing Jaskier’s eyelashes sticking with tears is too hard right now, so he tugs the bard a little closer, guiding his head to rest on his shoulder, his arms wrapping around his back to hold him tighter. The bard goes willingly, but Geralt suspects it’s more out of exhaustion than actual will.

Jaskier’s humid breath tickles his bare throat and wetness soaks through the fabric of his shirt – at least it’s not the nice one. The warm body in his arms shakes slightly with silent sobs, and he can’t help himself : he ducks his head and buries his nose in the crown of Jaskier’s head, and takes a deep inhale. And it’s here, it’s all here, mingled with the familiar scent of the bard : hurt, anger, fear. The same sour mix the wind had carried over to him at the top of a mountain after a dragon hunt that wasn’t really one.

And he’s smelled hints of it since, but so faint, covered with other scents, that he hadn’t made the connection. His heart clench painfully in his chest and he wants to throw himself off a cliff for being so fucking dense. He had apologised, and told himself that was enough to fix everything. And if it took a little bit of time, well, he could be patient. But Jaskier still hurts, and things can’t go back to what they used to be, because his wounds are still gaping, and time won’t heal them.

« - Fuck, Jaskier, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. »

Jaskier whimpers, finally moving, the hands he had let hang limply at his sides going up to grab at Geralt’s shoulders, fisting his shirt with force, like he needs it to stay upright. The witcher only tightens his grip, his heart breaking with every sob wreaking his friend’s body.

« - I can’t, Geralt » he heaves, the erratic breaths making it hard to talk, but Geralt hears every word with a sharp clarity « I can’t, I’m sorry, I tried, but it’s too hard. I can’t forget what happened, and I’m scared it’ll happen again the next time you’re hurt or angry and… I can’t do it again. »

Coldness settles in Geralt’s gut, as white frost covers the world in winter mornings. Every word leaving Jaskier’s trembling mouth to brush against his collarbone pierces his skin like as many shards of ice to reach at his heart.

« - It won’t, I swear, I’m not letting you go again Jaskier, I won’t push you away. I love Roach, and I’ve loved all the other horses before her, it’s just a stupid name, but it’s not the same. There’s never been someone like you before, and there never will be. Believe me, please. »

He’s not sure his words are making any sense, and he can’t remember the last time he’s begged for something, but this is too important. The two years he’s traveled without Jaskier have been hell, and he had only been able to carry on because he had a goal, a purpose. Once he had found Ciri, and led her to safety, there was nothing to keep the loneliness at bay. He had been lonely his whole life, and he had thought he could handle it again, he didn’t need anyone. But the last twenty years had been filled with laughter and stories and complaints. The Path was never cold and silent anymore, not with a bard following him. When he’d been alone again, the cold and the silence had been the only things he had felt. Loneliness wasn’t a monster he could fight without Jaskier by his side.

« - I understand if you need time, I’ll give you all the time you need. You can… you can ride Roach when your feet hurt if you want. I’ll let you sing that song you made about the time I almost got my dick chopped off by a kikimore. I won’t get angry when you forget to fill your waterskin and have to drink from mine again, I promise. »

There’s a wet laugh coming from the crook of his neck. The sobs have receded, and Jaskier is only trembling a little now. Geralt is afraid to let go of him but he needs to see his face, to see if there’s a little less hurt, a little less pain, if his awkward words have been in some sort of ways useful. He pushes gently at Jaskier’s shoulders, just enough to catch his gaze, and his shirt is covered in snot and tears but he doesn’t care. All he can see on Jaskier’s face is exhaustion, his eyes blurry and reddened, his hair in a mess from all of Geralt’s sniffing. But he still holds the witcher’s look with weary resolution.

« - Okay. » his voice is roughened with crying, as it is when he wakes up in the morning, which Geralt usually finds endearing. It’s only another sign of Jaskier’s distress now though, and Geralt hates it.

« - Okay ? »

« - Yeah, okay. » he breaks the eye contact and untangles himself from the witcher, who lets go of him reluctantly « Let’s go now, we need to find somewhere to make camp. »

Geralt should argue that they still have several hours before the sun starts setting, but the bard looks so tired, he doesn’t say anything, and whistles for Roach to leave the patch of yellow flowers she’s munching on.

*

They’re silent for the rest of the day, walking side by side as they always do these days. Geralt keeps glancing Jaskier’s way, making sure the bard won’t start crying again, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t do anything else either really. He doesn’t speak, or sing, or even play his lute. He just keeps walking, his still red eyes on the road. And the silence makes Geralt feel more lonely than he’s ever been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate writing sad moments, but it's necessary. I promise they'll be happy at some point, because I need it as much as they do.  
> Also I have to move now that the lockdown is over here, so next chapter might be uploaded a little later than usual. It's already written, and it only needs some editing. Your comments are everything to me!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At today's menu: overthinking, angst, fluff, confessions, and some more overthinking. Things are looking up for those two dumbasses. But they have things to work out, because, you know. They're dumbasses.

They set up camp in a small clearing, not far from the bank of one of the narrowest branches of the Yaruga in Dol Angra. The chill the moving water brings to the underwoods is welcome after a day of walking under the unforgiving heat of the summer sun.

Their evening routine is well practised, and they don’t need to say a word to get things done, which usually suits Geralt just fine. Tonight, the silence is a heavy weight on his shoulders. Jaskier normally sings as he tends to his chores, but as soon as they’ve unsaddled Roach and put all of their things in a heap on the ground he goes to find kindling, and Geralt only hears his footsteps as he rummages through the thickets. The Witcher busies himself by brushing the sweat and dust off Roach’s flanks and taking her to the river so she can drink her fill as he replenishes their waterskins. When she’s refreshed and grazing at the sweet grass on the side of their camp, he goes hunting for their dinner, and makes sure there are no trace of potential danger in the area.

The campfire is already ablaze when he comes back, and Jaskier has laid their bedrolls on the most comfortable patch of grass he’s found. Geralt sits down and together they skin the rabbits he’s caught. He remembers how terrible the bard used to be at this, leaving more meat on the skin than on the bones, wincing at the blood spurting and staining his clothes. But he had learned quickly while traveling with Geralt. The Witcher had admittedly been impressed by how quickly he had adapted, this boy, barely a man when they had met, even though he still complains about sleeping on the ground or when his pants get muddy.

Jaskier found some wild spinach and bear’s garlic in the underbrush, and they make a stew with the few potatoes they have left in their bags. It’s a hearty meal, a little bland even with the salt Jaskier brought back from Skellige on his last trip, but almost as good as what they’d find in a decent tavern. It fills their stomach, but it doesn’t improve the mood. Geralt wishes he had a keg of ale and the courage to start a much needed conversation, but unfortunately neither of those things magically appear.

He resents the wall of unsaid words between them, poisoning them like a splinter of wood left to rot under the skin, but Jaskier’s outburst this afternoon scared him, and he doesn’t want him to change his mind and leave if they adress the issue once more. So they finish eating in silence, the bard’s eyes not leaving the flames dancing in front of them, and after cleaning the remains of their meal, tossing the bones in the fire to keep the smell from attracting predators, he lies down on his bedroll, back turned to Geralt. It’s early still, the summer sky barely dark. The bard usually stays up until the moon appears, even after a long day of walking, strumming his lute one last time before putting it away in its case carefully – Geralt once heard him whisper « goodnight » to the instrument, but it’s something they don’t talk about.

This behaviour, more than the silence, spurs Geralt to ask :

« - Jaskier, are you… are you okay ? »

The only thing he can see clearly from the bard is the back of his head and the shoulder uncovered by the light blanket he draped over himself. It tenses visibly at the words, and it’s the only sign that he has heard them, as he doesn’t reply immediately.

« - I know you said you were, but it really doesn’t feel like it and I… I think we should talk. »

A sigh comes from the bard-shaped shadow, and Geralt waits while the thing in his guts that only wakes up at Jaskier’s contact tries to tear him apart from the inside.

« -I’m alright Geralt, we’re fine, I just… I need to think. Give me some time to think, please. »

It doesn’t help with the sharp claws burrowed in his stomach, but nothing else comes, so he settles in his own bedroll, head propped against Roach’s saddle. He knows he won’t be able to sleep for a while, it’s too early and he’s still worried about Jaskier. He looks at the sky for a little while as the stars slowly appear one by one, until he can’t help himself anymore and settles on his side, trying to pick up something, anything, from Jaskier’s silhouette. All he can see is the rythmical rise and fall of Jaskier’s shoulders as he breathes and the summer breeze gently tousling his hair. The bard isn’t sleeping but he makes no noise, which is unsettling, and when Geralt whispers « goodnight » and waits for an answer that never comes, he understands for the first time how it feels to be scared to wake up alone.

*

A century of sleeping in the outdoors has taught Geralt to be aware of his surroundings even in the deepest slumber. That’s why when he wakes up a few hours after sleep took him and doesn’t hear Jaskier’s familiar heartbeat, it doesn’t register right away. He looks at the vacant space next to him for a moment before his brain catches up. He is on his feet in an instant, scanning their camp to try and find any evidence of Jaskier’s presence. The clearing is empty, except for Roach who is snoring quietly. Jaskier’s things are still here, his lute safely hanged on a low branch to keep it from humidity. A swift touch of his hand on the empty bedroll tells him the bard has been gone for at least ten minutes, the fabric already cold under his fingers. Geralt focuses his senses, fear simmering in his veins. Jaskier would never have left without his lute willingly. He must have woken up and gone to relieve himself, and got lost on his way back. Yeah, that’s probably it. Geralt tries not to think of all the other things that might have happened while he was asleep.

He sniffs the air, in the way he tries not to do when Jaskier is close, because the bard already compares him to a wolf way more than he’d like. He picks up the scent of sweat, wood smoke and lute polish easily enough, leading to the underbrush in the direction of the river. He follows it, the forest barely illuminated by the crescent moon, but he quickly adapts his slitted pupils to the shadows and keeps moving without a sound.

The track is easy to follow and it cools down his anxiety. Jaskier hasn’t tried to cover his traces. Geralt has taught him how to conceal his presence and he isn’t too bad at it when he actually tries. Apparently it wasn’t his intention tonight, Geralt thinks as he spots a very obvious footprint in the mud as he gets closer to the river bank. The trees get scarcer and scarcer before disappearing to reveal pebbled ground. It’s just a little lower on the Yaruga than the place he came to with Roach earlier.

A pair of pants and a chemise have been abandonned in a bundle on the ground. At the center of the river, where it is the deepest, a head rises above the water. Jaskier is facing Geralt, but he hasn’t noticed his presence yet, his eyes closed as he floats lazily, letting the current drag him on a few meters down the river before swimming back to the same spot. Geralt wants to scold him for straying away from camp in the middle of the night to have a damn bath, even though he knows better than most people what kind of danger might wait for him in the dark. But his face is so peaceful, pale and smooth in the moonlight, as Geralt has only seen him when he’s asleep, and he’s not eager to see his expression turn back into the one of weariness he wore all evening.

He watches in silence from the shadow of the trees as Jaskier swims closer to the bank until his feet touch the muddy bottom of the river again. His shoulders rise over the water, glistening with the drops that fall from his hair. Geralt realizes he’s behaving like a creep, so he comes out of his hideout, his steps deliberately loud on the pebbled ground so as to warn the bard of his presence. Jaskier still startles at the sound, and the goosebumps blooming on his skin make the thing inside Geralt churn with restlessness.

Neither of them say a word as Geralt stands at the edge of the water awkwardly, Jaskier staring at him with challenge in his eyes, waiting to see his next move.

The Witcher ponders his options. Jaskier won’t listen to him if he asks him to come back to bed, he can see it in the rebellious look piercing him, and it probably wouldn’t help either to force him out of the water. He sighs and unfastens the laces on his breeches, letting them fall to the ground next to Jaskier’s own clothes. His shirt soon follows, and he steps towards the river, stark naked.

Jaskier doesn’t avert his eyes, and it’s the first time since their argument this afternoon that he truly looks at Geralt. He watches with sharp intent as Geralt enters the water, slowly but steadily. It’s cold, and from here he can see a blue tinge and a light tremble on Jaskier’s lips that almost breaks his resolve not to chastise the bard for being so reckless. But he keeps his mouth shut and pushes forward into the water, now reaching his lower belly. His muscles tense a little at the freezing touch, his body heat quickly dropping, and Jaskier breaks eye contact for a second as he follows the uncontrolled movement. Geralt is not usually one to be self conscious, but right now he feels incredibly vulnerable. His scars must be unpleasant to look at as his skin reflects the moonlight, but he tries not to hide himself defensively, keeping an open stance.

He finally comes to a stop in front of the bard, just close enough so he can reach for him if he needs to. He wants to, but Jaskier doesn’t look like he wishes to be touched right now. He thinks with a tinge of guilt to how good it felt to hold the bard this afternoon, even though the reason he did was the bard’s heartbreaking distress.

Jaskier’s expression is acutely expectant, reminding Geralt of his teenage years when Vesemir would wait for Eskel and him to explain the reason for one of their many misdeeds. Geralt wants so bad to break the silence but he can’t think of anything smart to say as Jaskier’s unfliching blue gaze pierces right through him. Under the scrutiny, he blurts the first thing that comes to his mind, the dreadful thought that’s been swirling there since he woke up alone, that he didn’t want to acknowledge.

« - I thought you had left. »

Jaskier has a mirthless laugh, a bitter puff of air that almost has Geralt keeling over.

« - Not used to being the one left behind, Witcher ? »

The words come out harsh and freeze Geralt more surely than the water has. Unsollicited memories cloud his view ; a spilt water bucket on the side of the road as he calls for his mother, the growing number of empty bunk beds in the dormitory of Kaer Morhen after each Trial, the smell of lilac and gooseberries lingering on his pillows as he wakes up alone in a shitty tavern bed, the silence as he walks down the path of a fucking mountain. Something must show on his face because Jaskier’s eyes soften and his voice is apologetic as he speaks again.

« - Sorry. That wasn’t fair. »

Geralt shakes his head, to get rid of the remnants of hurtful memories as well as to reassure Jaskier he has done nothing wrong.

« - It’s okay. I haven’t been fair to you. I’ve left you behind too many times without caring how hurtful it was. I’m sorry. »

The tired smile is back on Jaskier’s lips, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. Geralt hates it with a passion.

« - You haven’t done it in a while. I had given up the idea that you’d change, after twenty years. »

« -I’m trying to be a better friend. To be… worthy. »

_Of you_ , he doesn’t say. But Jaskier must hear it. Jaskier knows the meaning and nuances to all his grunts and glares, knows him better than anyone on the Continent, save perhaps for Eskel. But it’s not the same.

« - I know. You’re actually quite good at it, when you make the effort. It’s nice. »

« - So… why do you want to leave ? » he pushes the terrible question out of his throat before they can burn his tongue.

Jaskier sighs, his hands caressing the silver surface of the water thoughtlessly as he thinks, like his answer is not the most dreadful thing Geralt has ever waited for.

« - I thought I’d be fine with things going back to what they were before, to us being friends, but I… I’m not getting younger, Geralt. I still think what I said on that mountain. I want to do the things that make me happy, while I still can. I don’t have centuries for that. And traveling with you was all I used to want beside my lute and my songs. It’s not anymore. I want more than just that. »

Geralt is drowning with his head still above the water, his lungs constricting painfully behind his ribs. He has always known he couldn’t give Jaskier all the things he deserved, which was why he didn’t understand the reason the bard kept following him, but he selfishly never pointed that out, enjoying what little time he could get before he’d be alone once again. This time has come, and Geralt is not ready to let go.

« - And you making all those efforts is sweet, it really is. I dreamed of that for years, but, Geralt… it’s just making me yearn for more. For things that are not mine to have. And that isn’t fair for either of us. »

He struggles to find enough air to speak, to find the words that might somehow save this whole situation, that might fix things. But words have always been hard. Even harder when they have to express something so complex as the mess he’s feeling right now

« - Jaskier, there’s nothing I wouldn’t give you. You deserve everything I have, and so much more. I… don’t think I can go back to the life I had before I met you. »

He knows it’s pure truth as he says it, even though he never thought of it like that before. He can see his heartbreak reflected in Jaskier’s eyes as the bard raises his hand to cup his jaw with aching tenderness.

« - I’m sure you believe that, my dear Witcher. But if you haven’t given me your heart after so long, I don’t think you ever will. It’s okay, really, it’s not something you can control, and I shouldn’t have waited for it to happen all these years. But I’m a poet, and unrequited love is our prime source for song material. I don’t regret anything Geralt, but if I don’t leave now I’ll never be able to move on. And I might be stubborn, but even I have my limits. »

It’s not really a surprise. Geralt has known Jaskier had… feelings since probably the beginning of their partnership. It’s hard not to notice when the human smells like lust and desire almost all the time. But the bard falls in love every other day, and at first Geralt just thought it’d pass. Even after several years, he hadn’t paid it much attention, because it was so much easier if they never talked about it. The flirting and occasional peaks of arousal in the bard’s scent were just as familiar as his singing. It had been a little harder to ignore these last few months, mainly because Geralt didn’t really want to ignore it anymore. He actually seeked it, unconsciously. But the flirting was rarer, more cautious, as was the scent of lust. Geralt had thought Jaskier had maybe finally grown bored of longing, and that was fine. He was fine with them being friends, as long as Jaskier was with him. He sometimes catches himself wishing for something more, for lingering touches and affectionate gazes, but he doesn’t dare ask for it. He already took so much from the bard.

The cold hand leaves his cheek, and he reaches up to keep it in place. It startles Jaskier, who looks at him with suspiciously wet eyes.

His throat feels tight enough of all the unsaid things that he doesn’t know how he can still fill his lungs. A growl of frustration leaves him as he tries to find words Jaskier will understand, because he doesn’t, he always does but now he looks at him with confusion and a little worry like Geralt has gone mad. It feels like it.

« - What you’re asking for, it’s yours. » he blurts before he can overthink it.

It startles Jaskier, who frowns in incomprehension. Geralt leads the hand he holds captive to rest over his slowly beating heart, just above the water.

« - You already have it. It’s yours. »

His eyes try to convey all that he is unable to say out loud, and Jaskier must finally hear them because his face does something complicated that shows hope and doubt at the same time.

« - Geralt, are you saying you have… feelings ? For me ? »

Relief floods him for a second, because Jaskier found the right words for him again.

« -I have lots of feelings for you. Irritation, mostly. But yeah, the other ones, too. »

Jaskier swats at his shoulder with his free hand, but his upturned lips prove he isn’t too upset at Geralt’s teasing :

« - Keep your weird sarcasm for later. This is a serious conversation. »

Geralt huffs, falsely irritated, but he doesn’t add anything. He doesn’t know where to go from here, didn’t even know how true what all he just said is, jokes aside, before he actually said it. He feels like he lost his footing and the current is dragging him away and he forgot how to swim.

Jaskier’s fingers on his chest are fiddling with the silver chain of his wolf medallion, which makes him realize he still hasn’t let the bard’s hand go. He doesn’t particularly want to, either. With another spontaneous bout of courage, he rises his other hand to cup Jaskier’s skull, and pull him closer, a repeat of their embrace this afternoon, forehead against forehead, although in a much more pleasant situation. They share their breaths for a while, Jaskier looking at him with barely contained wonder, though apprehension is still present in his eyes.

« - So… these feelings, care to tell me what they are ? »

Ah, here is the panic again. He tries not to show it, lest Jaskier interpret it wrongly, but all he can articulate is a grunt, eloquently followed by a shrug.

« - Okay, you troll. You don’t need to talk. I love a riddle. Is it… friendship ? »

Geralt takes a moment to think and nods, careful to keep their foreheads tightly pressed together, but his eyes not meeting the other’s.

« - Affection ? »

A squeeze to the nimble hand in his.

« -… love ? »

His eyes rise for half a second to meet Jaskier’s, but the bard has scrunched them shut, as if in fear of the answer. The Witcher isn’t the only one who’s scared, then. Weirdly, it makes him feel braver.

« - Yes, » he breathes out.

Jaskier takes a sharp inhale before his eyelids flutter open, and when he does, his pupils are filled with so many things Geralt can’t begin to interprete. All the emotions of the past ten minutes, of the past day, months, years, come back at once to knock him over. His witcher’s instincts immediately push back, reacting in the only way they know how : his senses get on high alert, his muscles tense, ready to fight the threat, ready for pain. He voluntarily let himself be vulnerable for Jaskier, naked in unknown waters, his heart cracked open for what must be the first time in his life, and his brain registers it as danger.

It must show on his face because Jaskier returns his hand to cup his jaw and speaks in a quiet voice, as he does when Geralt comes back still on a high from the potions, like he’s trying to calm a spooked horse.

« - You just realized that, didn’t you ? »

Geralt growls his assent, hoping Jaskier will understand, because he doesn’t even know how to form words anymore. His senses are going wild, trying to identify the threat, even though he objectively knows there is no danger. His nerves refuse to settle. All he wants to do is fight or run away, because he’s too vulnerable here, under Jaskier’s too soft gaze, and it’s dangerous.

Cold water splashes his face, freezing the deafening sirens in his brain just long enough for him to take control over them again. He stares in shock at Jaskier, who arbors a look of innocence that rivals with Ciri’s best one.

« - I think that’s enough emotional talk for you tonight, isn’t it ? You look like you’re going to have a stroke. »

He’s thankful for the offered distraction ,  but he can’t let the affront unpuni shed, so he  sweeps the man’s feet from under him with a swift kick of his leg. Jaskier’s head disappears under the surface for a second,  and he quickly comes back for air, gasping and laughing as he chases the water from his eyes.

T he sound of laughter eases the last of the tension from his shoulders.  They’ll need to talk more about some things, but for now he is content to watch Jaskier sputter and smile at him with wonder in his eyes.  The sky is already paling, and the birds are slowly waking up, singing the song of a new day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Hope you liked this chapter. It was quite hard to write because I keep getting empathetic and crying. Next chapter is already mostly written because it's mostly fluff and I can write that for hours. Hopefully I'll upload it sooner rather than later, but I've also started playing the Wild Hunt again soooo... we'll see.   
> Don't hesitate to leave a comment, I love discussing how stupid these boys are with you!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Here is the last chapter, finally. This is, I think, the longest fic I have ever wrote (and actually finished), and it might not be very long for you as readers, but I'm pretty happy about this personal achievment. I can't thank my friend Talyah enough for helping me with The English Language and the stupid mistakes I make.
> 
> On another note, this whole fic, and in particular this last chapter, has been inspired by [alyssatye](https://www.instagram.com/alyssatye/?hl=fr) 's soft, sexy, funny artworks. [This beautiful piece](https://www.instagram.com/p/B8ssmewlndY/?hl=fr) is what gave me the idea of this final chapter, and the rest of the fic was just a way to get to this. Go give the artist some love!

Summer is always particularly hot in this part of the Continent, but today the heat is unbearable even for a Witcher. They are too far from the sea to benefit from the iodine winds and Jaskier won’t stop complaining his silk shirt will be ruined if he keeps sweating so much, until Geralt finally yields and leads Roach to the burnt grass that borders the road. Most of the fields they’ve passed this morning have already been harvested, bundles of wheat left to dry here and there.

They find a tree that provides enough shadow to hide from the sun, and a nap seems to be a good way to pass the time until they can be on their way again.

Sweat trickles from Geralt’s hairline to the hollow of his ear. He’s lying on his back with his arms pillowing his head, eyes half closed to filter the light that gets through the yellow leaves. He’s dozing off lightly, his armour neatly tucked away behind Roach’s saddle. The shirt Jaskier offered him is light enough that he can feel the warm breeze on his skin. It’s still in perfect condition, even though he’s had it for months and he wears it more often than not.

Jaskier is sitting next to him with his legs crossed, humming as he weaves together the pink cosmos and blue cornflowers he picked all morning – Geralt kept telling him he was slowing them down, but the bard only replied that there wasn’t anywhere they needed to get to fast anyway. Which is the truth, but it’s still pretty fucking annoying.

The tune Jaskier is humming must be a new one ; Geralt hasn’t heard it before. There’s only half formed sentences so it’s probably still a work in progress. It’s a cheerful melody. Jaskier has been happy lately, more than he’s been in months. Not performance-happy, or I-just-got-a-new-doublet-happy. It’s a new kind of happy, soft and warm and peaceful. A soothing aura that slips through his skin to bathe him in an invisible glow, and it hasn’t faded since their overwhelmingly emotional midnight bath five days ago.

Things have been weird since. The good kind of weird, though. Nothing has changed that much, really ; they still banter and argue like always, but now Jaskier gives him a soft smile to reassure him it’s nothing serious. Geralt always ends up giving him what he wants anyway.

He gives him the biggest chunks of meat at dinner and makes sure the bard doesn’t get dehydrated on the road. He repaired the pair of pants Jaskier ripped on a bush of thorns and complained about the whole afternoon. He even used the closest color of thread he had so it wouldn’t be too ugly.

He was already doing most of these things before, but now he knows why.

They also eat side by side instead of in front of each other now and when they’re done Jaskier leans against his shoulder with a contented sigh. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they only watch the red sparks that shoot from the fire into the night sky and dance among the stars.

They haven’t kissed yet. Or done anything else in that direction, for that matter. The only thing Geralt ever had approaching this relationship was whatever the hell it was he had with Yennefer, and they had literally jumped each other’s bones as soon as all the mess with the Djinn was over, so he’s not accustomed to the idea of « taking things slow ». They haven’t talked about it but he guesses that’s what they’re doing, because Jaskier hasn’t done anything to take their relationship to the next step, and Geralt is too scared he’ll fuck things up as soon as he takes an initiative, so he hasn’t either.

They exchange meaningful looks though, like when Jaskier washed his chemise in a stream shirtless and caught him staring, or when a villager asked them if they were friends and Geralt said yes but what he really wanted to say was « we’re so much more » and Jaskier read it in his eyes and smiled a secretive smile.

Jaskier smiles a lot more too. Knowing smiles, fond smiles, amused smiles. Geralt aches to taste them all, but he’s scared he’ll ask too much, too fast.

The touching is great too. It’s only chaste, affectionate touches, nothing that hints for more, but it feels amazing. They sleep closer than before, and most mornings he wakes up with Jaskier tucked against his side. The bard braided his hair again a couple of days ago and it felt even better this time with his head on Jaskier’s lap and the kiss on his forehead when he was done. The braids are undone now so he hopes Jaskier will offer to do it again in the near future. Or maybe he’ll muster up the courage to ask for it himself.

All these changes, no matter how small, how insignificant, rock his world sideways. It’s all he never dared to dream of, and even if they never kiss, even if things stay like this forever, it’ll be perfect. It’s the happiest he’s ever been. He still has trouble to adapt. Just because the changes are good, it doesn't make them easier to accept. Especially when you’re a hundred year old mutant who’s never had much space in his life for good things.

Jaskier is weaving the flowers with expertise and an air of focus he only shows when he’s composing. Geralt moves one of his hands from behind his head to place it on Jaskier’s knee, just because he can, now. He h as to remind it to himself from time to time, but it’s becoming more natural.

« - What are you doing ? » he asks while circling the bard’s kneecap gently with his thumb. Jaskier flashes him another of his smiles and shifts a little closer, the side of his thigh bumping against Geralt’s hip.

« - It’s a flower crown. »

It’s pretty obvious now that he says it, but Geralt has never seen an adult man make an honest to gods flower crown before, so he doesn’t think it’s surprising that he didn’t recognize it. Maybe it’s a bard thing.

Or just a Jaskier thing.

« - You’re already wearing five different colours. Are you trying to commit suicide by bad taste ? »

«- Oh what, so now you’re an expert in fashion, are you ? » the bard scoffs haughtily ; « but no, my dear, this is not for me. »

He’s distracted by how agitated the thing in his stomach became as soon as he touched the other man, so it takes a second for Geralt to catch up while Jaskier looks at him with a shit-eating grin slowly spreading on his face.

« - I am not wearing a flower crown » he deadpans.

His ridiculous bard gasps with exaggerated indignation.

« - Why, Sir Witcher, you’re hurting my feelings. How could you refuse such a heartfelt gift from your beloved ? »

The romantic words make Geralt blush slightly, and Jaskier’s grin get even wider.

« - No one will take a Witcher with flowers in his hair seriously. It’ll ruin my reputation. »

« - Oh, my love, your reputation is already shit. The only reason you’re not being stoned out of villages anymore is the twenty years of love songs I’ve sung about you all over the Continent. People like these kinds of things, you know. »

Geralt frowns, choosing to focus on the parts of this conversation he has at least a little control over instead of the repeated endearments that make his foollish heart jump everytime.

« - What love songs ? You sing about me sprayed in werewolf blood and deflowering maidens. Which I don’t, by the way. »

The bard lets out one of his most dramatic sighs, rolling his eyes like Geralt is the dumbest man he’s ever met. Which is pretty hypocritical coming from the man who thinks a basilisk is born from a rooster’s egg.

« - Well, I guess you’ve never been a good listener. And one has to be subtle to hide ones true love for twenty years. » Geralt catches the hand that is tapping condescendingly at his chest, squeezing it tightly, hiding the affectionate gesture behind a mask of annoyance.

« - You’ve never been subtle, bard. I could smell your lust as soon as you spotted me in that tavern. »

Jaskier sputters indignantly as his face and neck go the same shade of red as his discarded doublet. The Witcher can only contain his laughter for a second before it bubbles out of him. It’s a true laugh, pure, unadultered, one of those he only lets out once every decade. In his amusement, he tugs on the hand in his, pulling Jaskier over him. When his laugh dies out and he opens his eyes, Jaskier is looking right back at him with wonder written all over his face, dandelion fluff caught in his hair and sweat glistening on his collarbones where his open shirt reveals them. When he shifts a little, Geralt can see a dark nipple nestled in thick chest hair. He quickly averts his eyes, because the last thing he needs is to pop a boner in the middle of a field when they haven’t even kissed yet.

The bard smells like freshly picked flowers and sun-heated skin. It’s a heady perfume that has Geralt breathing a little deeper to catch more of it. He can’t tear his eyes from Jaskier’s blushing cheeks and parted lips. He’s as beautiful as he was twenty years ago, but now Geralt can look as much as he wants without being afraid of what it means.

Jaskier takes his hand back to rest it on the yellow grass next to Geralt’s in support, his blue eyes not leaving the golden ones. It brings them closer, so close that the Witcher can taste the apple Jaskier snacked on this morning on his breath.

He reaches up between them to card his fingers through the bard’s sweat soaked hair. He revently caresses his temple, the shell of his ear, the curve of his eyebrow, before cupping the back of his head. It’s a question more than a suggestion, and Jaskier answers it by bowing his head down until their lips brush, barely touching, getting used to the novel sensation. They’re practically breathing into each other, the warm air heating Geralt’s whole body in a way the sun can’t.

They don’t move for a little while, the time for them to adjust to each other, and then Jaskier timidly sticks the tip of his tongue out to prod at Geralt’s.

Geralt wouldn’t say he’s a particularly good kisser, but he has experience, thanks to his inhumanly long life. With Jaskier, it’s like his first kiss all over again, except it’s not with an older woman he’s had to pay for her to touch him. It’s slow and searching and a little clumsy, a marvelous thing of discovery and wonder. They taste and tease and map each other’s mouths for a few glorious minutes.

Jaskier bites at his bottom lip and a growl of pure, unrestrained want escapes Geralt’s throat and ends stifled in the bard’s mouth. It provokes a giggle from the other man, that quickly evolves into a full on laugh that shakes the bard’s whole body. Geraly tries to kiss it off him, because he loves the bard’s laughs but he loves his kisses even more. The bard answers them as much as he can but he can’t stop guffawing like he’s heard the best joke ever, and eventually Geralt abandons the idea of going back to their previous activities. He lets the bard wear himself out laughing like a maniac until he finally calms down, exhausted, sprawled onto his Witcher like this isn’t the hottest day of the year, chuckles still escaping him from time to time as Geralt traces lazy patterns onto the back of his damp shirt.

They’ll have time for kisses later, he thinks. All the time in the world.

*

In the next village, a flock of kids giggle when they see him, and the women at the wash house whisper with amusement in their voices as they point at the flower crown on his head. He’s mortified to be at the center of attention for another reason than just being what he is, but he doesn’t take the crown off. The joy that radiates from Jaskier at his side is so encompassing that he thinks he’ll never take it off at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Come coo with me about the softness of these bois in the comments, or find me on Tumblr (maya-the-yellow-bee). I am not very active there but it's mostly because I can't figure out how it works. I'll make an effort if you come talk to me though!
> 
> Edit: I've had the beautiful surprise of having my friends commissioning the very talented [figlasagna](https://figlasagna.tumblr.com/) to draw one of the scene at the end of this fanfiction. I am absolutely in love with it, so please go give her some love!


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